“You’1l freeze it off!” I said at last.
“It’s not that cold,” the Derriere answered.
“No? Then how come the brass monkey’s a eunuch?” I inquired.
“Do you want to make jokes? Or do you want to provide a little human warmth?”
I took another look at the fanny-filled porthole. The answer to the question looked back at me. It was quite an answer. Round as a pumpkin, taut as an inflated inner tube, rosy as a robin’s blushing breast, as neatly cleft as a bisected basketball, supple, delectable, rippling lightly with impatience—the sum of its parts was a whole that drove all thoughts of Weather conditions from my mind. I reached out with both hands!
It was like grabbing live twin pandas—that soft, that cuddly, and that wriggly. The cheeks oscillated in opposite directions under my hands, and while they were at first cool to my touch, their temperature went from tepid to warm to hot to burning in quick order. As I kneaded the flesh, a push-pull movement was added to the circular rhythm.
“Ahh-hh!” the Derriere sighed.
Gently, I investigated the area between the quivering cheeks. I probed until I touched the quick, and was rewarded by an even more ecstatic moan. I bent and bestowed a kiss on the now-sizzling flesh. When the Derriere thrust out for more, I embarked on a campaign of nibbling that brought forth additional moans. I slid my hand down until it located the entrance to the vagina. The lips were dewy with the oil of aroused passion. The clitoris, too, was slippery, but hard and springy. When I strummed it, the Derriere spun like a top.
I brought both hands into play, teasing the entrances to both orifices. There was a series of gasps from the Derriere. I tried to get both hands to the lower entrance, but it was a tight situation and I kept getting a little behind in my work.
“Are you ready?” the Derriere asked.
Was I ready? What a question! My you-know-what was as long and hard as the longest and hardest euphemism ever contrived by Fanny Hill! However, I had a problem.
The porthole, you see, was on a level with my waist. I came close, but even standing on tiptoe, I fell short of the mark. I considered the situation.
“What’s taking you so long?” the Derriere inquired. I explained the problem.
“Stand on a deck chair.”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? “You must have done this before,” I guessed aloud.
“If I have, it’s none of your business.”
“Don’t be testy. To each his own. But you must admit, from my point of view, it’s a little peculiar to go through all this when it would be so much simpler if I came inside your stateroom.”
“That’s out of the question. . . . Well, are you going to get the deck chair?” the unseen voice demanded.
I got the deck chair. I dragged it over to the porthole and stood on it. That put me at precisely the right level. I unbuttoned my overcoat and unzipped my fly. My shirttail was in the way. I tucked it up and under, and dropped my pants down around my ankles. It was simpler that way; I had more maneuverability.
The Derriere was bouncing with impatience. I steadied it with both hands. My position atop the deck chair was a little precarious, and I didn’t want to have to cope with a moving target until I was in a position to move with it.
I plunged the sword into the waiting scabbard. Oops! Wrong scabbard! “Sorry about that.” I started to withdraw.
“Sorry about what?”
“I seem to have gone through the wrong door.”
The Derriere shrugged. “Try it—you’ll like it!”
So I tried it . . . and I liked it . . . and so did the Derriere . . .
It vibrated frantically, plump cheeks afire, cleft clutching and unclutching—capturing and releasing my scrotum—the anus moving in small, tight circles like a cork wrapping itself around a corkscrew. The motion caused an indescribable tickling over the head of my instrument. Combined with the thrills caused by the expert squeezing of its length, these sensations excited me tremendously.
I inserted two fingers of my right hand just below where we were joined, contriving to catch the slippery, pulsating clitty between them. A trill of ecstatic laughter acknowledged the maneuver. I kept on strumming while the Derriere moved to suck me in deeper and deeper. Gone ape with passion, I was beyond wondering what my anonymous partner looked like now.
The Derriere’s passion mounted with my own. The deck chair teetered under my feet. On the verge, I paid no attention to it. One last, fierce lunge and my lust exploded, releasing the geyser of its juices. Dimly, I heard the scream—half-sob, half-laughter—which said that her climax had coincided with my own.
The Derriere released its grip, taking me by surprise. The deck chair slid out from under me. I tumbled to the deck in a tangle of fallen pants, open overcoat and sundry parts of my anatomy exposed to the icy elements.
“Welcome aboard the S.S. Lascivia, sir.”
I found myself looking up at an Oriental man. He wore the black coat, white scarf, and peaked cap of a ship’s officer. Standing over me, he looked every bit as yar as the ship itself.
The porthole, I noticed, had been hastily closed. The stateroom behind it was pitch-black. My anonymous playmate remained anonymous. And neither the Derriere nor the Breast were anywhere to be seen.
“I am Chief Purser Yenta.” The Oriental introduced himself. His English was Oxford-snotty.
“You don’t look French,” I blurted out, still confused by my fall, and thrown still further off balance by his sudden materialization.
“I am Japanese, sir.”
“But this is a French liner.”
“No, sir. Its registry is Monacan.”
“That’s right,” I remembered.
“The owner, Baron Duvivier, is French,” he continued, “but the Captain is only half-French.”
“What’s the other half?”
“British, sir. And it predominates, since he was raised and educated in England. . . . The rest of the crew is international in composition.”
“Do they all speak English as well as you do?”
“Yes, sir. Flawlessly. It was one of the requirements of being signed on for this cruise.”
“I see.”
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Steve Victor.”
He checked a sheaf of papers, obviously a list of some sort, which was attached to a clipboard he was carrying. He found what he was looking for—my name, I guessed— and made a notation with his fountain pen. “The Captain has been expecting you, sir,” he told me. “He has asked that you be conducted to his cabin directly upon boarding.”
“All right.”
“May I help you up, Mr. Victor?” Chief Purser Yenta reached down with his hand to grasp mine.
“Thanks.”
His strength surprised me, and I was yanked sharply to my feet. My pants fell down. My overcoat, caught by a sudden gust of wind, whipped straight out behind me. A quick scurry of goosepimples spread over my shivering genitals. Chief Purser Yenta jotted down some more notes.
“What are you writing?” I inquired, trying to grab for pants and coat at the same time. The two movements were uncoordinated, and I flubbed both tries.
“Just making some notes on your dossier, Mr. Victor.”
“My dossier?”
“It’s my duty to keep a dossier on each passenger. It is compiled in advance of sailing, and constantly revised so it will always be up-to-date. It lists the cruise-guest’s habits, hobbies, talents, abilities, interests, fears, preferences, and—umm—erotic idiosyncracies.
“About that last category—?” I managed to pull up my pants.
“Your voyeur tendencies are duly listed, Mr. Victor.”
“That's not fair!” I protested. “I’m the Man from O.R.G.Y. Observing sexual happenings is part of my job.”